


An Education

by traveller



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>He thinks she'll get over it, she'll get tired of the idea, she'll fall for some boy her own age, maybe the kid with the hair, and she'll forget she ever said such a thing to a man she's called uncle ever since she was ten, she'll stop wearing his goddamn bathrobe and he'll be able to sleep again.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	An Education

**Author's Note:**

> 10 years post-movie. if you're squicked by a major age difference, even if the younger party is not underage, then this is not for you.

"Joey's going to Berkeley," McCoy explains, "and she 'forgot' to make a room request – she wants to get an apartment in the city with some people she met at orientation." He scowls at his drink as if it had a hand in his daughter's scheme. "And now I'm shipping out in ten days, the dorms are overbooked and I'm telling you, I have met these prospective roommates—"

Chris grins. "And you'd rather leave her on a Klingon outpost, right?"

"There's a guy she claims is human. I've never seen a human with that much hair." McCoy rubs his eyes. "She's a good kid. She's smarter than I was at 19, that's for sure."

"But."

"But," McCoy agrees. "Are you sure it's not an imposition?"

Chris shakes his head. A guy helps save your life, you can't exactly say no, I won't offer a room to your kid, even if he wasn't as good a friend as Bones had turned out to be in the past ten years. "Not at all. It's a big house, and campus is barely five minutes away on the flashrail. We'll probably never even see each other."

 

He wonders how her six tons of clothes are all going to fit into the closet of the room he's given her, the room across the hall from his with the walls that were not really white, but not really blue. She does her thing with garment bags and shoeboxes and he can't stop himself from waiting around and watching, listening to her chatter about her program (mathematics, which he frankly doesn't follow in the slightest) and her friends (lovably demented geniuses, with which he has more than his share of experience) while she hangs and stacks and hangs some more.

Somehow it all works and everything fits; he smiles and says it must be magic, she laughs and says it's science.

"Come on, roomie," she says, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Let me buy you a curry."

 

She claims his bedroom has a bigger vidscreen than the one in the living room downstairs, and she likes to watch the newsfeed while she's doing her homework. She starts falling asleep in his bed, three, four nights a week, and sometimes he gently wakes her and sends her to her room and sometimes he just gives in and collapses beside her.

He'll wake later to her warm breath on his shoulder, or to her knee in his back, or to the alarm in the morning, her soft snores just audible through the sound.

 

He's on the couch reading reports when she drops down on the other end, shoves her bare feet under his thigh. He makes a noise that is probably a yelp.

"Christ, are you dead? Your feet are freezing."

"I have thin blood," she says, working her feet in further. "Southerner." She flips her own PADD on. "You're always warm."

He watches her a moment, her sloppy ponytail hanging over her shoulder, her nose scrunched a little as she reads.

"I grew up in the desert," he offers, and she looks up, eyes bright.

"Here on Earth?" she asks. He nods.

"Not even that far from here. The Mojave, 'bout halfway between Bakersfield and Vegas." He turns a little, leans back on the armrest of the couch. "It's the middle of nowhere, just the airbase and sand and Joshua trees."

She puts her PADD down, leans her head on her hand. "Tell me about it."

"What do you want to hear?"

She hitches one shoulder. "I don't know. Everything. Tell me about flying."

"We used to build shit out of spare parts we stole from the base," he begins, and she laughs.

 

"That's my bathrobe," he says, frowning from the kitchen door.

"You never wear it," she says, and pours coffee into two cups.

"Cream," he says absently, watching the way the fabric drapes across her shoulders, the way the sleeves, too long, brush the backs of her hands.

She turns to the cooler and opens the door, when she turns back to the counter with the bottle in her hand he sees that the robe is mostly open, that she is wearing only shorts underneath.

He looks away, at the floor, the wall, the gleaming steel door of the cooler, and hears something that might be a laugh.

"Here," she murmurs, close, and his coffee cup is pressed into his hand.

He is careful to only look her in the eye as he says thanks, but what he sees there makes him wonder if he shouldn't have just looked at her body.

 

There are days when his spine forgets those four surgeries and all that horrifyingly expensive nanotech crammed into his back and just _quits_ ; one second he's fine, the next everything goes to hell from the waist on down. If he's lucky it happens when he's already sitting, if he's unlucky he eats the floor, and probably in front of some visiting dignitary, too. Or in front of Joanna, in the living room where she's watching a vid, one step from the door and a casual hello, two steps and his knees buckle and he has just enough to time to mutter a heartfelt _motherfucker_ on the way down.

"Whoa," she says, diving off the couch. "Did you hit your head?" She levers him upright, cups his face in her hands.

"No, I'm fine," he says. "It happens, sometimes, just need to rest a few minutes."

"How can I help?" she asks, her hands still on his cheeks. He gently pulls away.

"It's fine," he repeats. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She sits back on her heels and shakes her head. "You didn't," she lies and smiles.

 

He's in pain and trying to wake up, trying so fucking hard to wake up, but it isn't a nightmare. It's the Narada, and he's trying not to scream, he doesn't want them to hear him scream, but it hurts too much and they laugh while he—

"Chris. Chris. Chris."

—fights the bonds but they won't give, they won't break, too strong and he's just not fucking strong enough—

"Chris."

He comes up swinging, but Joey's holding him, she's holding him and it's his bed, his bedroom, San Francisco, ten years later. She's holding him.

"Chris," she says again. "Shh. Shh."

He lets himself be weak, to press his face to her shoulder and let his breath come back to him slowly; she doesn't say any more, just makes gentle noises of comfort, her hand cupped over the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he says at last, lifting his head.

"I don't mind." She sweeps her fingertips across his brow. "I understand. I mean. I don't _know_ , but. I think I understand."

 

She drags him out to the bistro down the street on Friday nights, for curry and jazz, for dancing when he feels up to it, for conversation that lasts until they get thrown out.

One night he can't get to his feet so she sits sideways on his lap, presses her cheek to his, and they sway from the waist up, her arms around his neck, his hands on the small of her back. The bandleader dedicates the next song to them, calls them his favorite couple, and Chris stammers through explanations while she just lays her head on his shoulder and smiles.

"I'd be your girlfriend, if you'd let me," she says, later, at home. She's wearing his bathrobe again.

"You have a crush," he says, disbelieving. "You just think—"

"I think about it all the time," she says. Her eyes are huge and dark. "All the things I'd do, if you'd let me."

She walks away, the ties of the robe trailing behind her. He can't follow, and not because of his legs.

 

He thinks she'll get over it, she'll get tired of the idea, she'll fall for some boy her own age, maybe the kid with the hair, and she'll forget she ever said such a thing to a man she's called uncle ever since she was ten, she'll stop wearing his goddamn bathrobe and he'll be able to sleep again.

He hears her on the comm with her father, laughing when McCoy says there's a rumor going around that Pike is dating a cadet.

"Trust me, Daddy, there's no cadet."

He can't see her face but he can picture the crooked smile, the eyeroll.

"I'd know, wouldn't I?" she goes on, laughter still in her voice. "People have probably just seen us together. We have a standing curry date at Zalf's, otherwise he'd never leave the office."

"That makes a hell of a lot more sense," McCoy says. "Hey, gotta go. Tell the old man I say hi."

"Sure, Daddy. Love you."

"You too, kid."

She comes into the kitchen and pins him against the table; they're nose to nose and hip to hip.

"I heard you come in," she says.

He blinks.

"Is there a cadet?"

"No," he says.

"Don't you get it?" She puts one hand in the middle of his chest. "Chris. Please."

Her hair smells like apples and her mouth tastes like coffee with too much sugar, a little bit sweet, a little bit sour. He hitches up onto the table, brings her with him, and there are thirty-four reasons they shouldn't do this, thirty-four just to start, but she keeps saying please and he's tired of saying no.

 

She's been going down on him for close to twenty minutes, the afternoon sun picks out golden highlights in her hair and makes the sweat on his back prickle. He puts his hands on her shoulders, tries to pull her up into his lap, but instead she rests her cheek on his thigh with an annoyed little sigh.

"Sweetheart," he says, brushing the hair off her face. "Sometimes I just can't. It's not you—"

"I know," she interrupts, and now she does sit up and straddle him, her wet pussy slipping against his half-hard cock. "I know, it's what they did to you, I just."

He kisses her and she rocks against him, arms tight around his back. "It's okay," he says, mouth against her ear. "It's just not gonna happen."

She rocks her hips again, again, again. "What if I don't believe in no-win scenarios?" she whispers back, and he laughs as she pulls away to lower her head once more.

 

Number One drops by and Joey answers the door in his bathrobe; they smile too brightly at each other and he has to grit his teeth before welcoming his erstwhile second in.

"What are you doing?" she asks as soon as Joey has excused herself upstairs. "Christopher, please tell me that I am drawing faulty conclusions based on lack of evidence."

"You're drawing faulty conclusions based on lack of evidence," he repeats back to her, and she frowns.

"So it's true. " Number One shakes her head. "I expected better judgment from you."

"Are people talking?" he asks.

"Not yet." Her eyes are kind. "But give it time. They will."

 

"I hate your dress whites," she mumbles, pulling the offending jacket off and throwing it to the floor. "In this day and age – mmph – you'd think we could design something a little less ug—oh—Christ. Chris."

His uniform pants open, her skirt up, taking shameless advantage of the couch in his office, a reward for having sacrificed two inches of his spinal cord for the Federation. He tugs her panties to one side and she slides down his dick, slick and tight, her mouth opening on a graceless, gorgeous moan.

There's a chirp from the direction of his desk and he covers her lips with his hand, shaking his head.

"Pike here," he answers, and she squirms, her pussy flexing on him, and his eyes roll back a little.

"Sir, your meeting with the Denebian ambassador has been moved up to 1400."

They both turn to stare at the chrono on the wall; it's 1342, and Denebians are never late.

"You could've mentioned it a little sooner, Ensign," he snaps, and shoves up into Joey, hard enough to make her squeal against his palm.

"Sir, I only just—"

"Ten minutes, Ensign. Pike out."

Joey pants against his hand, eyes wide; no more sound comes from the commlink and he lets go of her face to find her grinning. "C'mon, Admiral," she says, twisting her hips. "Ten minutes."

 

"I never wanted to be a diplomat," he says, watching himself in the mirror over her head as she works on his bow tie. His bathrobe is falling off her shoulders, the sides pooling where she sits on the bathroom counter. "Suits and ties and champagne and bullshit."

"Mm hmm," she says, frowning at the tie. It looks fine to him, but she pulls it apart and starts again.

"It's gonna be a late one. General Urani's receptions always run half the damn night, so don't wait—"

He stops as she tugs the tie straight, too hard, cutting off his air. He grabs her wrists, then lets go again to work a finger under his collar, loosening the tie; she sits with her fists still raised like she's going to start swinging.

"What's with you?" Chris takes a step back, and her hands fall to her lap.

"You never wanted to be a diplomat. I never wanted to be a diplomat's mistress. "

He tugs at his collar again, shaking his head. "Is that how you feel?" he asks, and feels stupid when she just looks at him, the same 'are you defective' look that her father gives Jim.

"I didn't think," he tries, steps forward and picks up her hands again. "I didn't think you'd even want to go stand around…"

"Don't you get it?" she says, and it's déjà vu when she kisses him, and it's something new.

 

Of course there were going to be photos of the General's party on the newsfeed in the morning, there had been two princesses in attendance, a dozen councilors of varying highness, people far more important than one human admiral and his date. But Joanna had worn red, a vintage gown that she'd produced from god knew where, with her dark hair hanging loose and single silver chain around her neck.

Of course there were going to be photos, but he didn't imagine they'd look like this, him laughing at something while she smoothes his lapels, their foreheads nearly touching. Them dancing, his hands too low to be innocent, staring at each other like they were in a bedroom instead of a ballroom.

She leans over his shoulder, arms around him, and motions at the screen. "I like that one," she says, and pushes her face into his neck.

He puts a hand on her forearm and squeezes. "You know there's no way that your father won't see these, maybe not today, or tomorrow, but."

"I know." Her lips plump against his skin when she speaks. She pats his chest, right over his heart. "It's okay. I gotta get to class."

 

It's Jim who calls, comming Chris in his office some three weeks after the General's party. Joey's at a late lecture, they've got dinner reservations in L.A. at 2200, and Chris can't help thinking, as Jim's tired face appears on his screen, of the things he promised to do to her in the car on the way.

"Admiral," Jim begins, and it's been years since Jim used his title like that.

"Captain," Chris responds. He sits back in his chair, folds his hands in his lap. "How are things?"

"I wanted you to know that Dr. McCoy suffered an injury to his right hand during alpha shift this morning. He's been treated, and relieved of duty for the next 72 hours. It won't be appearing the mission report."

Chris nods, feeling a chill in his stomach. "Would you care to share the cause of the injury, Captain?"

"Dr. McCoy struck a bulkhead with his fist." Jim blinks slowly. "Upon the receipt of some upsetting personal news."

"Are we really going to go through this kabuki or whatever it is, Jim?" Chris leans forward; his back twinges. "Just get to it."

"You're fucking his daughter."

"Watch your goddamn mouth," Chris snaps back. "It isn't that simple."

"Do you love her?"

"Yes." He hasn't said it, not even to himself, but he'll be damned if he'll deny it.

Jim blinks again. "I'll talk to Bones." The screen goes dark.

 

They lie face to face in the dark, legs still tangled from sex, his hand on her hip. She puts a fingertip on his chin.

"I'm not leaving you. I'll fight with my father, but I'm not leaving you."

"Joey," he sighs, because he doesn't want to have this out, not now, when they're still covered in each other's sweat.

"Unless you don't want me." Her hand drops to the mattress between them.

"You know I want you." He tightens his fingers on her hip. "But I don't think you know what _you_ want."

"Why? Because I'm young?" Her lips curve. "That's so hypocritical."

He pulls his head back a little.

"You were seventeen when you enlisted," she goes on, her eyes bright in the dark. "That's a lifetime commitment. Was it the wrong choice?"

"It's not the same."

"It's commitment. It's exactly the same." Her hand curls into a fist. "You knew, you told me, you just knew it was right."

He leans forward and kisses her, slow and careful. "You think you have all the answers," he says softly.

"No," she whispers back. "I just don't want to learn from anybody but you."


End file.
